


Mysterious and Spooky

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Ghosts, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Multi, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I asked my followers to send me Halloween prompts on tumblr. These are the results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constance/Flea, "Aren't You a Little Old To Be Trick-or-Treating?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sensoryinputpatterns asked, "Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?? AU - conflea~" 
> 
> This can also be found at my tumblr, [here](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/101440350810/arent-you-a-little-old-to-be-trick-or-treating-au).

Constance was staring dully at the term paper due on Monday, and contemplating walking to the dining hall for dinner, when a knock came on her dorm room door. Glad for the reprieve, she swung the door open.

Flea twirled into the room and struck a pose, one gloved hand over her head like a Vogue model. The other was holding a plastic shopping bag. Her outfit, an airy scrap of fabric, settled around her.

Constance inspected Flea’s outfit. She could just glean from the color – periwinkle blue, with silver shoes and a blue ribbon in her hair – that Flea was apparently supposed to be some mimicry of Cinderella.

Constance raised her eyebrows. “Aren’t you a little old to be trick-or-treating?”

“ _Please_. Does this look like a child’s costume?” Flea cocked a hip, sending the taffeta at her waist fluttering.

“It looks child-sized, certainly. I can practically—“ She gaped. “I can! Flea, I can see your knickers!”

“D’you like them?” Flea said airily. “They’re the new pair I got from the shop down in—“

“I don’t care where you got them, you’re not going out like that!”

“You’re not my mum.”

“I’m your best friend, and I’m telling you that it’s indecent to go out dressed like that! You’ll catch your cold, anyway – it’s freezing outside!”

Flea pouted. “Not all of us are satisfied with holing ourselves up in our rooms and studying twenty-four hours a day.” She reached out and flicked the collar of Constance’s (very modest, thank you) blouse. “Some of us need a… release.” Flea raised her smoky, blue-shadowed eyes to Constance’s gaze.

Constance rolled her eyes, too used to Flea’s sly flirting by now. It was fun when she used it on the boys and got them both free drinks, but less fun when she flirted with Constance. Because Constance knew she would never really mean it.

“At least wear some tights,” she said, resigning herself, as always, to Flea getting her way.

Flea moved closer. Short as Constance was, Flea was shorter; she looked up at Constance through her eyelashes.

“If you’re so worried about my indecency, why don’t you come along and keep an eye on me?”

Before Constance could draw breath to say that watching Flea flirt with girls and boys alike, while Constance sipped a beer in the corner and fended off drunken frat boys, was the last thing on her wishlist for the evening, Flea leaned even closer. Impossibly close. Tilting her head up, her lips nearly touching Constance’s, she said:

“Better yet, why don’t you be indecent with me?”

She tossed the shopping bag on Constance’s bed without looking to see if it landed. “If you want to come… Meet me at the door at nine.”

She broke away from Constance and twirled out the door.

Constance stared at the corridor long after she was gone, wide eyed and breathless.

Maybe this was Flea finally meaning it. Maybe this was the night when she would finally let Constance kiss her the way she’d had to watch others kiss her, and touch her and hold her the way she’d only imagined – jealously, in the lonely dark of her room – others had touched her.

Yes, this was it. This was the night that Constance would take the plunge. This was the chance she had been waiting for.

Flea was giving her a chance. And Constance wouldn’t let her down.

She darted to the bed and opened the bag that Flea had left. She held up the foam seashell brassiere and the tiny green scaled skirt.

And then she let out a shout that rang down the hall.

“ _Flea!_ ”


	2. Aramis/Porthos, Competing Trick-or-Treaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thewalrus-said asked, "competing to get a trick-or-treating child the most candy AU, Aramis/Porthos (bonus points if the child is D'Artagnan)." 
> 
> This can also be found on my tumblr, [here](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/101455592265/competing-to-get-a-trick-or-treating-child-the-most).

Aramis sized up his opponent.

Usually he’d be checking out a guy like this — a guy with shoulders that broad and a face that perfect — to judge how long it’d take Aramis to get him in bed. But tonight was different. Aramis was on a mission.

Porthos waved at d’Artagnan, who was standing by the curb and adjusting his costume, and smiled. When he blinked, his long eyelashes fluttered across the curve of his cheek, and Aramis had to wrench his gaze away before he was caught staring.

Aramis shook himself. Remember the objective, he told himself firmly.

Porthos’ voice broke into Aramis’ thoughts.

"So you’re the other babysitter, huh?"

Aramis stuck his hands in his pockets. _Don’t look at his lips don’t look at his lips don’t look — fuck_.

"Yeah," he said. "Kind of awkward that they scheduled both of us for tonight. I guess they both forgot the town was doing trick-or-treating a day early this year."

Porthos’ eyes crinkled in a wicked smile. “At least I get to meet the Tuesday-and-Thursday sitter who spoils d’Artagnan for when I return.”

"I never!" Aramis protested.

"Oh yeah?" Porthos grinned, deep and mischievous, like he and Aramis were sharing an inside joke. Aramis leaned closer without thinking about it. And felt a small force slam into his calf.

He kept himself upright with the skill that came with knowing with d’Artagnan — though he regretted it a second later, when he realized that he could have fallen onto Porthos and let himself be righted by those arms, those biceps that bulged in Porthos’ inappropriately warm-weather t-shirt.

(Arms perfect for lifting certain other people against walls whilst ravishing their necks… No, no, stop that.)

"Aramis!" d’Artagnan complained from knee height, a mop-haired pirate with a crooked parrot hanging from his shoulder. "Let’s go already! You promised to get me the most candy!"

"Ah, well," Aramis chuckled nervously. He ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair and avoided Porthos’ eyes. "I’m not sure I actually promised to get the most candy, per se…”

"That’s funny," said Porthos. “‘Cause I also promised to get d’Artagnan the most candy." He grinned at Aramis and said, as if confiding a secret, "And I always keep my promises."

He began to back away, toward the brightly lit house behind them, grinning all the while.

"You can’t get the most candy," said Aramis, outraged and grounded by d’Artagnan’s weight on his leg. " _I’m_ getting the most candy!”

"Something else about me," said Porthos, seamlessly joining the line of children and guardians. "I always win." He winked.

As Aramis and d’Artagnan watched, he went up to the elderly woman on the porch. He bent down and gestured to d’Artagnan. After a few moments, the woman pushed an entire box of chocolate bars into Porthos’ hands.

He thanked her and strolled back down the driveway, carrying the box as a triumphant warrior king would return to his castle carrying the loot of his enemy. It was totally unfair, and unbearably hot.

Porthos presented the box to d’Artagnan, who fairly screamed with glee and grabbed for it. Porthos held it above d’Artagnan’s head and looked at Aramis.

"What’d you say to her?" Aramis asked.

"Trade secret."

 _You’re so smug and I love it_ , Aramis thought. He narrowed his eyes and said, “Oh, it’s on.”

At the next house, Aramis carried d’Artagnan — after some minor protestations that he, d’Artagnan, was a big boy; and hasty reassurances that it would help d’Artagnan’s cause — to the door and explained that his kid brother had broken his leg the day before. He got two candy bars for his effort.

D’Artagnan wrinkled his nose. “Not as good as Porthos,” he said.

Sometimes Aramis was grateful that he didn’t have to keep the kids he babysat. At other times, he wished d’Artagnan was his, just so he could flick his ear without d’Artagnan telling on Aramis.

He was vindicated, though, when Porthos only got an extra bubble gum at the next house. D’Artagnan stuck out his tongue.

Aramis laughed, which proved to be his downfall when, at the next house, Porthos appeared next to Aramis’ shoulder and interrupted Aramis’ very plausible story about d’Artagnan just overcoming a bout of shingles, and could you give a few more Musketeers bars to the poor tyke? Porthos felled that story in a minute flat with his (ridiculously hot) knowledge of shingles being primarily an adult disease, and how did anyone look so sexy talking about rashes?!

Porthos struck big at the next house, despite Aramis’ not-altogether-coherent attempts to trip him up (he was slightly dazed by the curve of Porthos’ ear and lost track of his argument).

They raced up the line of houses, dodging tiny princes and superheroines and nodding at parents in an attempt to seem like collected, reasonable adults and not giddy kids trying to one-up each other. At each house their lies became wilder and more grandiose, no longer for the benefit of their hosts but for each other. Though they still stuffed their prizes into d’Artagnan’s basket, Aramis felt that the goal was no longer the amount of candy, but who could make the other laugh first.

"I’m a representative of UNICEF, and this poor little fellow—"

"We’re here on behalf of this young man’s twelve younger brothers and sisters who are sitting in their orphanage at this very moment—"

"Did you know that children as young as this lad are struggling with the inability to color within the lines at school—"

"Ma’am, have you ever heard of d’Artagnanitis? This poor soul—"

Aramis almost cracked when Porthos slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulder and explained that they were representing the local footie team. The warm, heavy weight of Porthos blocked out anything that passed between the Porthos and the person at the door.

Porthos’ hand was dangling in front of Aramis’ chest — no, he was moving it — Aramis had only a second of disappointment before Porthos’ hand settled on Aramis’ shoulder, tugging Aramis closer. He was nestled into Porthos’ side; he could smell Porthos’ aftershave and laundry detergent, and something that just smelled like Porthos, something Aramis wanted to bury himself in. He wanted to wear Porthos’ sweatshirt and surround himself in that smell.

Porthos’ hand eased up the weight, and Aramis was dimly aware of d’Artagnan skipping down to the sidewalk. Porthos’ hand stayed where it was, though, his thumb rubbing small circles on Aramis’ hoodie. There was no reason to move if Porthos wasn’t going to.

He finally looked up. Porthos was looking at Aramis, his eyes thoughtful and deep.

"So what’d he promise you?" Porthos asked.

Aramis blinked. Out of all the things Porthos could have said, that wasn’t anything Aramis would have guessed.

Then he remembered the bet with d’Artagnan. He laughed a little. “Oh, his old Xbox. His mom’s getting him a new one and he told me I could have the old one if I got him the most candy…”

He trailed off. Porthos was nodding.

"You too?" Aramis realized.

"Me too. I think we’ve been played."

Porthos half-turned his head, and Aramis reluctantly broke their stance, turning with him to find d’Artagnan.

The boy was sitting on the curb, happily rooting through his overflowing bag of candy. A few pieces fell onto the sidewalk and d’Artagnan snatched them up, growling — what had that child been watching? — _growling_ at another kid who tried to go after them.

"That brat," Aramis said. "He’ll make himself sick if he tries to eat all of that."

"And you know he will," Porthos agreed. "We’d better stop him."

"Yeah," Aramis said, sighing a little at the inevitability of responsibility cockblocking him every time.

Porthos didn’t descend to the sidewalk just yet, though. He looked at Aramis — still so close, still pressing shoulder to shoulder, still with those damn unfair eyes, and those lips, and that voice when he said, “It’s impossible to tell who won now. He mixed it all up.”

"Uh, yeah," said Aramis, slightly distracted by Porthos’ eyes. Were they mahogany brown or light black? He’d have to study them later.

"So we’d better call it even anyway," Porthos continued. "Split the profits."

The look in his eyes clued Aramis in. He grinned slowly.

"You mean, share custody?" he said. "One day at your place, one day at mine?"

"Yeah," said Porthos, inching closer. "Maybe we could do visitation rights too."

"I’ll show you my place, if you show me—" Aramis was cut off by Porthos’ lips closing over his.

Like everything else about Porthos, it was perfect. Porthos kissed like a man who knew what he was doing; like someone who knew how to push; like someone who could lift Aramis up and hold him against a wall and _okay there are children here, better break this up before someone calls the cops_.

Aramis felt a body slam into his leg. He swayed and this time, he was caught by Porthos.

"Aramis!" d’Artagnan shouted. His face was smeared with chocolate and his eyes were lit with the unholy glee of a child on the climb of the biggest sugar high of his life. "Porthos! Aramis! _More candy!_ ”


	3. Richelieu/Treville, "Fuck You Scared Me But I'm Going To Get You Back For That"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> justastormie asked, "late to the party but will give someone else's right arm for a treville/richelieu FUCK YOU SCARED ME I'M GOING TO GET YOU BACK FOR THAT AU"
> 
> This can also be found on my tumblr, [here](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/101508228385/late-to-the-party-but-will-give-someone-elses-right).

Richelieu stifled an unseemly chuckle as his husband glared at him over the dinner table.

"Papa, can I have the potatoes?" Their youngest poked Treville until he stopped glowering at Richelieu. "Papa! Potatoes?"

"What do you say, d’Artagnan?" Treville said automatically, already passing the dish.

"Pleasethankyou!"

"Very good." Treville returned his stare to his husband.

Richelieu forked a piece of pot roast, exuding innocence. “Is there something wrong, my dear?”

Treville harrumphed. “You know exactly what you’ve done.”

The children’s faces swiveled from one father to another, watching the spectacle with varying degrees of glee. D’Artagnan was happily preoccupied by shoveling potatoes into his mouth; Aramis, Constance, and Porthos looked highly amused; and Athos and Anne were wearing the long-suffering expressions of easily embarrassed teenagers.

Richelieu chewed slowly, enjoying the tension.

"I’m so sorry, but my trespass seems to elude me. Have I forgotten to take d’Artagnan to the park this week? Or perhaps I didn’t get that stain out of your new dress shirt?" He snapped his fingers. “I know what it is. I’ve forgotten to sign up for chaperoning Porthos’ school trip.”

"No," Treville said reluctantly. "You did all those things."

Richelieu rubbed his chin. “Then what could it be…?”

"You don’t have to rub it in."

Richelieu finally allowed himself a small chuckle. “You can’t be cross when things don’t go your way.”

"Don’t patronize me, you old billy goat."

"Such unkind words in front of the children."

"Oh, shut it."

"My dear, don't be upset that I didn’t fall for your Halloween prank. It was too predictable. I’m sorry, but it’s true," he continued when Treville would have protested. "You tried the same thing last year. The empty house, the eerie flashing lights, the disembodied head… I know you too well."

"Fine," said Treville. "Let’s stop talking about it, shall we?"

Richelieu softened. “I know you must have spent a good amount of time on it…”

"Drop it," said Treville curtly. He turned to Anne. "How is school, Anne?"

Anne tossed her curly dark hair. “I’m still at the top of my class, of course.”

"Of course you are," Richelieu said, warming to the subject despite his lingering concern over his husband’s cross mood. "And we’re very proud of you."

Anne bit her lip and glanced between her fathers. “About that, Dad…”

Richelieu felt a chill run through him. “Yes?”

Anne straightened, a habit she’d gotten from Richelieu when he was about to deliver unsavory news. “I was thinking I want to go to a state school next year.”

Richelieu felt dizzy. “State school?”

His daughter, attend school with the rest of the unwashed masses? Richelieu felt his eyes bulge.

"Yes," said Anne firmly. "This school isn’t challenging enough for me. I don’t think I’m learning enough where I am.”

"Not learning—" Richelieu had to grip the table to stay upright. All those years of investing in his daughter’s upbringing, getting her into the best public schools — arguing against Treville, who said that going to a state school never hurt _him_ — and now he was betrayed.

Anne turned to Treville. "You’re right, Papa. He does look like a puffed-up owl when he’s scared."

"He’s got googly eyes!" d’Artagnan piped up.

Richelieu found his breath again. “What…?”

Treville was laughing at him. “Scared you, didn’t she?” He had the gall to wink at Richelieu.

"You mean…" He looked at Anne. "You’re not really…?"

Anne shook her head. A smile, so rare to her but all the more charming for it, crept across her face. “It was Papa’s idea. Happy Halloween.”

"Oh thank God," Richelieu muttered. He pointed at Treville. "I’m going to get you back for that. Don’t think I’ll forget so easily."

"You can try," said Treville, still laughing. The crow’s feet around his eyes deepened, and he ducked his head to hide his brilliant smile. Richelieu had probably loved him more than at this moment, but he couldn’t remember when.

"And you!" Richelieu rose from his chair and swooped down on d’Artagnan. "Who said I had googly eyes?"

D’Artagnan squealed as Richelieu lifted him out of his seat. “Anne! Anne did!”

"I don’t think so, young man." Richelieu propped d’Artagnan on his hip. "Time for your bath." He leaned down and pressed a kiss against Treville’s beard-roughened cheek. "Just you wait," he whispered.

"I tremble in fear," Treville said dryly. He turned and caught Richelieu’s lips with his own.

D’Artagnan groaned in Richelieu's ear. “Athos, save me. They’re being gross again.”


	4. Athos/d'Artagnan, Accidentally Raise The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> queenaramis asked, "Halloween AU - d'Artagnan has convinced a dubious Athos to join him for a late-night jaunt through the cemetery, but they accidentally raise a ghost who won't leave them alone (bonus points if the ghost is Aramis/Constance/Bonacieux/Louis)."
> 
> Side note: I read that last part as “the ghost is [the pairing of] Aramis/Constance/Bonacieux/Louis” so. Here’s that. 
> 
> This can also be found on my tumblr, [here](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/101517027720/halloween-au-dartagnan-has-convinced-a-dubious-athos).

"Come on, Athos. It’s just a cemetery!" D’Artagnan tugged on Athos’ hand. "Don’t tell me you’re scared."

"I’m not," Athos said with dignity. "I just don’t think we’re supposed to be here."

"Sounds like something a scaredy-cat would say," d’Artagnan teased.

Athos stepped through the gate of the graveyard, forced casual. D’Artagnan laughed and pulled him forward.

"It’s really nothing to be scared of," d’Artagnan said. "It’s just a regular cemetery, only at night. And on Halloween. You know, they say the veil between worlds is thinner at this time of year."

Athos snorted. What did that even mean?

"That’s just some nonsense made up by people who want to sell protection amulets," he said.

"Now, I thought Halloween was made up by people who want to capitalize on the ridiculous tradition of dressing in ill-thought costumes?"

Athos relaxed at d’Artagnan’s banter. ”That too.”

The cemetery wasn’t so bad, not when d’Artagnan was holding his hand. If Athos just reminded himself that just beyond the graveyard walls was the city — as noisy and irritating as always — and that d’Artagnan was with him, then he’d be fine.

D’Artagnan slowed to look at a headstone. “This one’s huge. I wonder how many people were buried here?”

Athos glanced back at the gate. _It’s just part of the city_ , he reminded himself. _No ghosts here._

D’Artagnan swung their joined hands to get Athos’ attention.

"Did Porthos tell you that he was teaching me some Latin?" D’Artagnan’s grin shone in the dark. "He taught me some great chants to raise the dead."

"D’Artagnan," Athos warned, his nerves tightening. "Don’t."

"Hokery pokery, rock ‘em sock ‘em, wingardium leviosa — "

Athos tamped down on a laugh. “Not funny,” he managed.

"No wait, there’s actually some weird Latin stuff on this headstone." D’Artagnan leaned forward. He started to read the words out loud.

Athos didn’t recognize the words, but he felt a cold shiver creep up his back. The hairs on his neck rose.

There was a blast of cold air that swept Athos’ hair back, and a bright light blinded him for a split second. He closed his eyes and clung to d’Artagnan’s hand.

Darkness descended again. Athos tentatively opened his eyes, nerves jangling.

"Jesus," he said, already half-laughing it off. But then he caught sight of what was in front of them, and the laugh stopped in his throat.

A ghost.

An actual, see-through, moaning-in-the-night ghost. Writhing and moaning and… actually, quite a bit of moaning.

D’Artagnan put his hand over Athos’ eyes. “Don’t look, Athos,” he said. “This isn’t something your delicate sensibilities can handle.”

Athos pushed d’Artagnan’s hand away. “I’m not scared, I… Oh.”

From what Athos could see, there were four ghosts, all in varying degrees of ghostly undress. They were wrapped around — and slightly through — each other, with translucent bits disappearing into other opaque bits.

And they were all moaning, _quite_ enthusiastically.

"Um," said Athos. "Perhaps we’d better go…?"

At that moment, a voice issued from the pile of ghostly bodies. “I say!”

A head with long, curly hair and a baffled expression popped up, like a meerkat peeking out over the plains.

"Did you raise us?" it said. "How rude! We were right in the middle of something, you know."

Another two ghosts untangled themselves from the group and looked around.

"I don’t know about you, Louis, but I was already up,” said one of them, with a distinct leer. It was a rather smug-looking ghost, especially considering its prominent, uh — Athos looked away quickly.

D’Artagnan didn’t seem to have the same problem. ”How do ghosts even get erections?” he whispered to Athos. “Where does the blood come from?”

The third ghost smacked the second one on the arm. “Don’t be crass, Aramis!” it said in a high tone.

The fourth ghost, who seemed content to lay where it was and not look around at the intruders, said, “Don’t smack him, Constance. You know he gets off on that.”

"I’m still not talking to you," Constance sniffed.

"Much as I’d like to hear your list of the ways your husband in life has to redeem himself in death, I’m much more interested in these two," said the first ghost, Louis.

He glided a little closer to Athos and d’Artagnan. As he was still rather attached to the others, they also glided forward while maintaining their positions, as if they were all on a large, invisible bed on wheels.

"You’re a nice-looking fellow," he said, peering at d’Artagnan. He switched his attention to Athos. "I suppose you’re alright, too."

Athos felt a bit offended, but not enough to protest to a ghost.

"More than alright," said Aramis. "Are your eyes going now?"

"My eyes can’t go, I’m dead," said Louis.

"Stop squabbling, you two," Constance said sternly. She reached out as if to touch d’Artagnan’s cheek. D’Artagnan shied back.

"I don’t supposed you’d like to join us?" Constance said with a smile.

"How would that work?" said the fourth ghost, still staring lazily into the sky.

"Come on, don’t you remember that girl in the early nineteenth century?" said Louis.

"Oh, but she had one foot in the grave anyway," said Aramis.

"That’s disgusting," d’Artagnan blurted out.

"Oi, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it!" said Aramis.

Athos put a hand on d’Artagnan’s back. “I’m afraid we have to decline,” he said. “Thank you for the… offer.”

"Look us up when you’ve kicked it, will you?" said Louis. He winked.

"We’ll be sure to do that," said Athos insincerely. He nodded to the ghosts and steered d’Artagnan away.

As they made for the cemetery gate, he could hear the sounds of ectoplasm sliding against certain other ectoplasm. He tried to block it out. If he had any luck, he’d soon forget this entire night had ever happened.

"I am never going along with any of your plans again," he muttered to d’Artagnan.


	5. Athos/d'Artagnan, Sexy Cop Costume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tiallisaur asked, "D'Artagnan/Athos - You’re dressed as a sexy cop and oh god please arrest me AU." 
> 
> This can also be found on my tumblr, [here](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/101535979480/dartagnan-athos-youre-dressed-as-a-sexy-cop-and-oh).

"What the hell?" Porthos shouted over the music. "Who’s the first-year who decided to dress as a sexy cop?"

Athos and Aramis, and a few partygoers caught in Porthos’ blast radius, turned to the door.

Athos recognized the underclassman standing by the door in navy-colored booty shorts and vest. A pair of plastic handcuffs was pinned to the fake pocket of his shorts, and — Athos squinted — no, there really was nothing under the vest.

This wasn’t the first time Athos had seen d’Artagnan outside of classes, but it was definitely the _most_ Athos had ever seen of him.

It might bear mentioning that it was also the first time they’d gone to the same party, and wasn’t the usual result of Athos seeing d’Artagnan go into the Café On The Corner and deciding, on a completely unrelated and independent note, that he could use a morning brew.

These encounters invariably ended with Athos lurking by the creamer counter until d’Artagnan left, and then deciding that he didn’t want anything after all.

"He’s in my class," Athos told Aramis and Porthos. "Name’s d’Artagnan."

"Your class?" Porthos said, surprised. "He must be pretty smart if he skipped the intros."

"Not smart enough to know not to dress as a sexy cop for a party full of pre-law enforcement students," Aramis said.

"It was a bet," Athos said before he thought. He tried to justify eavesdropping on d’Artagnan, who by mystical coincidence sat in the row behind Athos in their lecture hall. "I overheard it," he said. "By accident. It was a bet over who could solve the example case the fastest."

Porthos snorted. “Well then he isn’t too bright, your crush, if he’s wearing that.”

"No way," said Aramis, looking between Athos and Porthos. "You’re not saying that our Athos has his eye on some trashy underclassman."

Athos turned away. “He’s not trashy.” D’Artagnan was hot-headed and stubborn, as Athos had learned from watching him go off in their in-class discussions; but he was also thoughtful, and funny, and well-spoken, and — and oh dear god d’Artagnan was looking at him.

He’d accidentally made eye contact. D’Artagnan grinned and waved.

"Is he looking at us?" Aramis hissed. "We’re going to get blasted if we’re seen talking to him — oof."

Porthos removed his elbow from Aramis’ stomach.

Athos raised his beer in a salute, and lifted a few of his fingers in a half-assed wave.

"Athos, why are you waving," Aramis said pleadingly.

Athos ignored him, fixated on the sight of d’Artagnan slinking across the room toward him. D’Artagnan intercepted a beer and took a swig. Athos nearly choked on his tongue at the sight of d’Artagnan’s vest riding up and exposing a strip of skin.

D’Artagnan reached Athos and grinned. ”I like your costume.”

Athos glanced down at himself. “I’m not dressed as anything.”

"Really? Cuz I thought we were matching. I’m the cop, and you’re the perp."

Aramis groaned. “That’s so bad,” he said to Porthos in an aside, before Porthos’ elbow found his gut again.

D’Artagnan was grinning. “But if you’re a law-abiding citizen, I guess I don’t have any reason to use these on you.” He toyed with the handcuffs at his waist, letting them clink together and fall against the skin of his thighs.

Athos pushed the beer out of Aramis’ hands. It fell to the floor.

"Oops," said Athos, still looking at d’Artagnan. "Willful destruction of property."

"What," said Aramis.

D’Artagnan cocked his hip. “You’re a naughty boy, Athos.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. _Stay cool, stay cool._ “What are you going to do about it?”

"Am I hallucinating?" said Aramis.

D’Artagnan grabbed the collar of Athos’ shirt and dragged him into a kiss. Athos nearly dropped his own beer.

Dimly, he heard Porthos whooping. But Athos could only focus on the feel of d’Artagnan’s lips on his. And those damn handcuffs bouncing against his leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those waiting on the last chapter of the Big Bang.. it's coming. Soon.


End file.
